


Family

by rlnerdgirl



Series: The one in which... [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, the Hales and Argents are mafia families, the one in which
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2679905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rlnerdgirl/pseuds/rlnerdgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one in which the Hales were once the most prominent family in New York, brought down by the psychotic actions of the oldest daughter of the Argent family who manipulated her way far enough into the family to light their home on fire--single-handedly nearly extinguishing the Hales completely. Now the only thing Derek Hale will find himself in charge of is scheduling the shifts of his bartenders and chefs, the only violence he sees is kicking out the too-drunk riffraff that need booting, and the closest thing he has to a friend is a steady customer named Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on Tumblr in my _the one in which_ tag. It is a brief glimpse of a look at many months of relationship between Derek and Stiles using the backdrop of mafia and family life (imagine a 20k fic boiled down to 4k).

The one in which the Hales were once the most prominent family in New York, brought down by the psychotic actions of the oldest daughter of the Argent family who manipulated her way far enough into the family to light their home on fire--single-handedly nearly extinguishing the Hales completely.

Now the only thing Derek Hale will find himself in charge of is scheduling the shifts of his bartenders and chefs and the only violence he sees is kicking out the too-drunk riffraff that need booting. He's content, if not happy, to live his life here, sleeping in the just-big-enough apartment above the bar. It's made, at the least, more interesting by the presence of a man charmingly unaware of his own good look. A man who, when he comes in, comes close to closing and isn't completely sober when he asks for whiskey on the rocks. A man who wears suits that Derek knows are expensive and suspects are tailored. A man who introduces himself, with a bright smile and mischievous eyes, as Stiles the very first time he stumbles up to the bar, first four buttons of his shirt undone to reveal just enough chest to be distracting. A man who doesn't shut up and seems to think they're friends until Derek thinks they might be.

But when his sister gets roped back in to old family business and is murdered in the process of helping their uncle, Peter, as he starts making real money, Derek can't help but feel the itch to go back, to find out what really happened the night Laura died. He closes up the bar for a week--family business, the notice says--and goes to Peter, looking for a job, because the last thing his uncle will give him is information.

It's when he's in a suit that almost costs the lease of the bar and shoes that he can only justify because they are as comfortable as they are elite, that he finds out what Stiles does during the night before he shows up at the Surly Wolf. When Stiles is on business for the Argents he doesn't smile like he does at the bar, doesn't talk a mile a minute, doesn't look at people like they're his friends. When Stiles is on business for the Argents Derek has to uncomfortably consider the dark rumors he's heard about the small pool of people potentially responsible for his sister's death.

Returning to his apartment--the new one, fit for a Hale and Peter's right-hand man--it's still dark in the early morning, dark enough to conceal the depths of the alley next to the garage. Strong fingers clamp around his forearm and drag him into the darkness, and as his eyes adjust, back against the slippery wall of a New York alleyway, he sees Stiles, eye-level and looking as serious as he's seen him in surveillance photos.

"If I tell you what you want to know, will you leave?" Stiles asks, words sharp.

Confused, feeling in no small part trapped, Derek moves to push the other man away and finds, to his surprise, that he can't. Stiles, lither and hidden by the layers of his fine suit, is thick, compact muscle, has a good grip and a strong stance. "Leave what?" He finally snaps back.

"The family. Peter," Stiles supplies.

Derek's brows raise. "Why? Stiles, what are you even doing? What do the Argents want?"

Stiles lips quirk in recognition of a joke Derek doesn't get. "I'm not here for the Argents," only confuses him more. "If I tell you who killed Laura, will you get out?"

Things went to shit before Derek could get a grasp on his relationship with Stiles, but now, seeing the intensity in the man's eyes, hearing the tense desperation in his voice, he thinks they must be friends, because Stiles, for whatever reason, is afraid for him. Long moments pass before he manages to make himself nod. He returned to find Laura's killer. There's no other reason to stay.

In front of him, Stiles visibly relaxes, hands loosening their twisted grip in Derek's jacket. "Good," he breaths with a sigh, fingers slowly uncurling. "Good," he murmurs as he moves back, releases Derek and runs his hands down Derek's chest to flatten out his rumpled clothing. "Good," he says as he takes a step back and faces Derek, all traces of any smile or spark of humor gone. "It was Peter."

Punching Stiles is almost reflexive. Peter, of all people. Peter, who welcomed him back with open arms and no question. Peter, who gave him enough money to keep the bar's lease going and afford a new apartment and clothes. Peter, who bent over backwards to give Derek the assistance he needed to go hunting. Peter, who had pictures of all the Hales on his desk, including a recent photo of Laura.

On the ground, Stiles gathers himself, pushes up to an elbow and rub blood from his split lip with the back of his other hand. "She went to him first to ask him not to take up the Hale mantel, when she realized his plans were to build enough to take on the Argents, she put her foot down--said nothing would come of blood shedding more blood. She didn't... she didn't want the Hale name tainted after what had happened."

Derek sags back against the wall, knees weak, breathing heavy. It's Stiles' voice, but they're Laura's words.

"She was persuasive, powerful. Peter knew it, knew she'd be fair competition, that she had as much a right to running the family as he did. He decided not to deal with it."

When his thoughts clear he sees Stiles, sitting on the ground, legs crossed, prodding his lip and jaw that are already bright red from Derek's fist. It'll bruise, no doubt about it. Pushing off the wall, he reaches down and extends a hand. "Sorry about that."

Taking the offered hand, Stiles allows himself to be hauled to his feet, smile curving his lips. "Ah, I've had worse."

"Why... Why bother telling me?" Derek asks, as confused as ever. Stiles is an Argent man, through and through as far as he knows.

"You're getting out then?" Stiles asks back, not so much avoiding the question as ignoring it.

Derek's teeth grind. "I can't..." he starts with a shake of his head. "I can't let Peter just get  _away_ with it."

"Give me two weeks," Stiles says, as serious as he is cryptic. "Tell Peter the life doesn't agree with you anymore, that you're more suited to your bar," his lips quirk again, before dissolving. "If you're not satisfied, you can do whatever you need to."

"Stiles, I have no idea-"

"Two weeks."

There's something hard and dark in Stiles' eyes that make Derek forget protesting a second time and just nod in agreement. What does it matter to him what Stiles and the Argents do anyway? Besides, two weeks will be plenty of time to work out how he plans to get revenge. "Eight days," he agrees. Honestly, it will be nice to be out of the suits and in his regular clothes. He's missed the bar and his little apartment. He's missed his normal life.

In two weeks Kate and Gerard Argent are arrested in a bust during an illegal arms sale. Newspapers announce Kate Argent will be brought up on additional charges of first degree murder and arson for the killing of the Hale family. Later the same day a bust on Peter Hale, supplier of the Argent-bought weapons, results in the shooting of an FBI agent and the death of his uncle. 

Derek is not remorseful. 

He is, however, concerned when Stiles makes no appearance after the newspapers run their stories. It's not until a week later that Stiles comes through the doors, around lunch time, sober as a rock, left arm in a sling strapped tight to his chest. Smiling ear-to-ear he slides up to the bar.

On instinct Derek is already pulling out the whiskey when Stiles says, "Diet coke," making him stutter through the motion of putting the bottle back and picking up a pint glass.

"Where've you been?" Are the first words out of his mouth when he hands the cold, fizzing beverage over. Stiles doesn't have a chance to answer before he asks the real question gnawing at him, "Are you alright?"

Stiles lets loose a light chuckle and nurses the drink with his one hand. "Oh yeah," he rubs his bandaged arm and then rubs at his face and Derek notices more than just the sling. Stiles' hair is a mess, no gel, no crisp maintenance, just raw and fresh and rolled-out-of-bed ruffled. He's in casual clothes, and they make him look better than his suits ever did because they fit him now, not physically, but the smile and his relaxed shoulders and- "I got shot," interrupts any further inspection and Derek's eyes snap back to Stiles' face. "No big deal," Stiles says after attempting a shrug that cuts off with a wince and then a single-shoulder shrug.

"What  _happened_?" Derek asks, not sure if he's more afraid or angry. He'd always assumed Stiles did dangerous things for the Argents, but he never thought- No. It wasn't that he'd never thought about Stiles being hurt. It was just that he hadn't cared.

"Well," Stiles rubs the back of his neck, and now the wince pinching his features has nothing to do with physical pain. "You're going to be mad, and I didn't think it would be a big deal, because this was just some random place I found to drink, but the thing is-" Heaving a breath, his hand drops from the back of his neck to the bar that he's studying with interest Derek knows it doesn't deserve. "You're really nice and I've grown to kind of like you, so-"

"Tell me what happened Stiles," because Derek has heard Stiles talk before, but this is freaking him out a little.

Reaching into his back pocket, Stiles pulls out a fold of black leather, too thin to be a wallet, and flips it open for Derek to see. "I'm FBI. I've been working undercover for the Argents for a little over a year. During our bust the other day-"

"You were the agent that was shot," Derek finishes numbly.

It takes obvious effort for Stiles to drag his eyes away from the bar to meet Derek's. "Yeah."

"Jesus Christ," Derek breathes, stomach and chest feeling a cold-hot heavy mess of something he can't define and doesn't know if he wants to deal with right now. "Why are you here then, Stiles?"

Stiles winces and suddenly Derek wishes he could take the question back. "I just... I wanted to see how you were doing."

"Did you know who I was the whole time?" Derek wonders, feeling betrayed despite knowing Stiles didn't actually  _use_ him for anything. In fact- "Why tell me to leave? What was the poi-"

"I didn't know," Stiles cuts in, voice harder and more assured than for anything else he's said yet. "I mean," he lets out a short bark of laughter, "the first time I came here I'm pretty sure I was trashed."

Thinking back on the night he first met Stiles, Derek nods. Trashed is as good a word for it as anything. "I had to call you a cab," Derek fills, "after you drank half a bottle and puked over my bar."

Stiles winces again and Derek knows he should be irritated by the fact that it makes him feel sorry for the man sitting in front of him. A man, it turns out, he hardly knows. A stranger.

"Peter called in a favor to Gerard," Stiles mutters, staring down at his soda looking irrevocably disappointed it's not actually liquor, "I was supposed to dispose Laura's body," is a low whisper.

All Derek can do is stare in shock, watch Stiles take a heavy breath and rest an elbow on the bar as he cradles his forehead in his hand.

"I didn't. I mean, I did, but I called my handler and got her body to an ME. They had to hold off on putting it in the papers." Tilting his head to the side, he looks up at Derek and says, "She was never in the river. I promise. But..." he raises his head, shakes it, and takes a deep drink of soda, grimacing as he puts the glass down with a thunk. "I went out and got shift-faced after that. I shouldn't have needed to, but I did."

"Were you there?" Derek asks, voice raw. The only thing keeping him from grabbing Stiles and shaking answers out of him being his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the bar. "When he killed her."

"No," Stiles states. "But Peter was a fair number of drinks in by the time I got there. I don't know whether he meant to say anything or not, but that's when I got most of the pieces of the puzzle. The rest I picked up here and there. When I finally realized who you were..." He pauses for a moment, looks disappointed when Derek doesn't interrupt, and continues. "It wasn't until probably the third or fourth time I came here. I'd been briefed on all the Hales, but you're not active in the game, I hadn't seen your face for a thirteen months, it took awhile to jog free. By then... well, you're you and I like the you that you are." Stiles shrugs. "I came to the bar because you'd sometimes pretend to listen to what I was saying and you didn't know who I was, either way."

"I didn't pretend," Derek sighs, rolling his eyes before he catches himself.

A smile twitches at the corners of Stiles' lips, feeble, but there. "So that's why I wanted you to get out before we went in for our big bust. I knew why you were there, and you didn't need to go to prison for the next five to ten years just for trying to get your answer."

"I wanted revenge," Derek adds.

Stiles nods and finally looks up. "Satisfied?"

Staring at the man across from him, Derek wonders if he really doesn't know Stiles. He doesn't know as much as he could, as much as he wanted to at one point--maybe still does, but he does know him. He knows Stiles saved him from prison. He knows Stiles probably risked his status as an undercover agent by taking his sister to an ME instead of dumping her and calling it in. He knows Stiles managed to arrest the two people who have done the most damage to him. He knows Stiles risked his life making sure Peter would go to prison. He knows-

"How did Peter die?"

Stiles' breath of laugh is strained. "I shot him," he says, and Derek wonders if Stiles has ever killed a man before. "I knew before going in- That was my job." Or maybe had never committed premeditated murder before.

"Jesus Christ, Stiles."

"You know-" Stiles shifts, pushes the glass back, "this was a bad idea. I should probably just go." He stands, starts to take a step back and freezes when Derek's fingers wrap around his wrist in a tight, unrelenting grip. "Ah- Derek?"

"Have you had anything to eat yet?"

"No," is a careful syllable slipping from Stiles' chapped lips. A result of his hospital stay, Derek's mind provides.

"Let me make you something. As a thank you." Under his fingers, Derek feels Stiles relax before he nods and slowly returns to the stool. "Why don't you take a booth, nobody's here anyway and it'll be more comfortable." Another nod, and Stiles moves to comply. Derek stays where he is until he sees the man take a seat and melt back, eyes slipping shut with a slow, controlled breath that makes his nervousness all the more obvious. 

"Are you even supposed to be walking around?" Derek asks softly as he slides into the booth opposite Stiles, stifling his amusement as Stiles jolts awake, and then feeling shitty when he winces at the sudden movement.

"It's not highly advised," Stiles admits, eyeing the two plates of sandwiches and pulling the closer of the two towards himself. "But it had already been awhile and I wanted to talk before I could convince myself so much time had passed that I might as well not come back at all."

"Because you like me," Derek prompts.

Picking up his sandwich, Stiles agrees, "Because I like you," before freezing, sandwich inches from his mouth, eyes slowly climbing to meet Derek's. "As a friend," he tries to finish, and if the pause weren't long enough to make it too late, the rising flush that starts at his ears and slowly spreads over his cheeks and down his jaw and neck would be enough to indicate the lie. Attempting to play it off, he bites into the sandwich as his eyes dart away to stare down at his meal.

"Then I hope I'll continue seeing you around."

Derek finds the way Stiles has to nod down to his sandwich somewhat endearing, the way he can't quite bring himself to make eye contact as he continues to blush. 

He's happy they ended on the note that they did, because he does continue to see Stiles, sometimes in the afternoon for lunch and occasionally in the evening for a drink. He's quick to note that Stiles doesn't drink alcohol anymore. It makes him reflect on just how much Stiles drank when he first met the man, and what all that drinking had been for, but he doesn't ask. They talk at lunch, when the crowd is small and Derek has time, which is practically ever day, but they don't talk any further about the families or Stiles' job.

Soon enough Stiles comes in free of his sling and showing off his unimpressive amount of cuff rotation. It's the first time Derek finds out he was shot in the chest and had to have a portion of his lung, that had been severely damaged, removed. Stiles plays it off and Derek looks up lung injuries later that evening and has a hard time falling asleep when all he can imagine is Stiles choking as his own blood fills his lungs.

"So you're the infamous Derek Hale," a man with shaggy brown hair who Derek has never seen before two minutes ago when he and Stiles walked through the doors together.

Glancing in the direction of the bathrooms and finding the hall Stiles-less, Derek turns his attention to the man addressing him. "I wouldn't say infamous."

"Scott McCall," the man says, holding out a hand.

Derek takes the hand. It's a firm grip.

"I work with Stiles," Scott supplies, providing an unexpected wave of relief to wash through Derek.

"Drink?" Derek asks, more to be polite than anything else.

"I think we're here for lunch, actually. I didn't mean to interrupt or anything, I just wanted to meet you."

Despite the friendly smile that nearly rivals Stiles', Derek can't help but raise an eyebrow at that. He's sure Stiles would have mentioned something if there were going to be any legal further legal repercussions, particularly involving law enforcement. 

"Don't worry, nothing office," Scott says. "No. I just..." his own attention flickers after where Stiles had gone and yet to make an appearance from. Satisfied, he looks back at Derek, locking eyes. "I wanted to say thank you."

Derek balks. "What?"

"For whatever it is you do. He says you talk? It's just... Stiles was undercover for awhile. He saw some bad stuff, did things that weren't all that much better. His psychologist is impressed with how well he's adjusting, and I'm pretty sure it's probably your doing."

Derek shakes his head, but at least Scott's presence makes more sense now. He must have been Stiles' handler. "We have lunch," is all he's able to come up with as a response, because it's true. They have lunch. They talk, but they don't even talk about Stiles' job or family life. 

"Well, thanks for that then."

"We having lunch?" Stiles calls out from across the bar, grin a mile wide and Derek can't help but smile back.

"Yeah. Yeah. I was just getting to know your lunch date a little," Scott shoots back. "Giving him some pointers on how to deal with a Stilinski."

Rolling his eyes, Stiles slides onto a stool. "There are no hints for dealing with a Stilinski."

They get through the lunch, in the regular booth with Stiles and Scott sitting next to each other laughing at inside jokes that Derek doesn't feel completely left out of if only because the way Stiles always glances at him, as though to make sure he's enjoying himself as well. There's an awkward moment partway through lunch when Stiles' right hand is resting in the middle of the table and Derek, on impulse, almost reaches across to touch his fingers. He stops himself, just, but his foot slides forward and knocks against Stiles', and doesn't leave. He doesn't think Stiles has even noticed, but Stiles stops glancing back at him quite as much, is able to laugh without checking in, and Derek is equal parts pleased and disappointed. 

"Shit. I gotta go," Scott jolts after a quick look at his phone. "Meeting in twenty." Scooting out of the booth he glances back at Stiles. "You're back next week," isn't a question.

Stiles nods. "Sure thing."

"Desk work."

A salute. "Yes, sir."

"Don't do that," is followed by a, "Nice to meet you," with a gracious smile and another outreached hand for a final handshake.

Derek takes it. "Likewise."

Scott disappears out the door and Stiles starts munching on the leftover fries on Derek's plate. "So, that's Scott," he says around a fry.

"He seems like a good person."

"Known him since the academy," Stiles says with a nod. "Good person. Probably won't be bringing him back though."

Derek raises an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

"I like my lunches with you," Stiles says with a shrug. It's like the wave, his right shoulder shrugging higher than his healing left. 

"What about dinner?"

It takes a minute for Stiles' chewing to slow and his eyes to refocus from the middle of space to Derek's face. "What?" comes out sounding dumb and makes Derek want to grin, which isn't a surprise, because most of what Stiles does these days makes him want to smile like an idiot, which he is, because it's taken too long for him to realize  _why_.

"Dinner. With me," he clarifies.

"Dinner," Stiles repeats, slowly, as though feeling out a trap.

"A dinner date," Derek spells out. Some months of knowing Stiles has taught him a few important lessons. Reiteration of important facts, on occasion, is one.

"Dinner date," comes off Stiles' tongue even slower. His eyes flicker down to his hand, currently plucking another french fry off Derek's plate, and his ears begin to flush pink. Still, he picks up the fry and pops it in his mouth as he nods. "Sure. Yeah. I mean-"

With a low chuckle, Derek pushes himself up and leans across the booth. It's too wide and he has to laugh at how ridiculous it is that he has to say. "Come here, Stiles."

Stiles' lips, semi-chapped, taste like salt, french fries, and trace sweetness of soda and ketchup. It's extremely Stiles and makes Derek grin against Stiles' lips. Stiles who chuckles against Derek's mouth before muttering, "You can't smile and kiss at the same time, Derek."

Laughing, Derek reaches up to run a hand up Stiles' throat to the back of his neck, pulling him further over the booth. He follows, "You can't talk either," with a quick lick across Stiles' lips.

"The booth doesn't he-" Stiles starts, half grinning, half laughing, all of which cuts off when Derek's tongue interrupts Stiles'. Warm, wet, salty and sweet. Stiles makes a sound of surprise, momentarily shocked into paralysis before kissing back, left hand coming up to grip Derek's arm for support as he leans further forward.

"I'm sorry," Derek murmurs finally, pulling away to rest his forehead to Stiles'.

Under his hand, Stiles freezes. "For what?"

"Not asking sooner," Derek answers with a smile.

With a breath and a chuckle, Stiles relaxes, tilts his chin, and lands light kiss on Derek's lips. "It's alright."

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://rlnerdgirl.tumblr.com) for quick and easy updates on what I'm writing!


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